


Rainy Season

by andnowforyaya



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:19:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike comes down with something at the office, and Harvey tries to delude himself into thinking that he doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Season

It’s been raining for the past four days – and not the kind of summer drizzle that breaks through oppressive, muggy heat. More like a cold, windy, miserable _monsoon_. The streets might as well be rivers, the pedestrians (the brave, or perhaps foolish, few who continue to believe that an umbrella is all it takes to conquer the downpour) constantly on the lookout for the inevitable waves breaking over their sidewalks as cars and taxis pass. In fact, Harvey takes small pleasure in watching a couple of young men who stink of _frat_ jump back from the splash that the car Ray is driving makes as it pulls in front of Pearson Hardmen. They glare as he steps out of the car with Ray already at his side, armed with a golf umbrella, but Harvey just smirks, buttons his suit jacket, swipes a hand over his hair to make sure it’s perfectly in place, and nods to his faithful driver.

They’re wet, he’s not – yet another perk in being one of New York City’s best closers.

 

It’s been raining for the past four days and Mike has come into the law offices shaking off rain water like a wet dog for each and every one of those days. He’s started biking to work in casual clothes – hoodies and jeans, mostly – so that he doesn’t have to worry about waterlogged suits, but even after he sheds the drenched clothing and changes into his dry suit and tie every morning, the wet and the cold seem to linger somewhere under his skin, raising gooseflesh every so often for apparently no reason at all. 

Mike combs his fingers through his hair into something approaching 'styled' as he shuffles back to his cubicle, muttering a quick 'good morning' to Harold and Gregory as he passes them but in no mood for any real social interaction. It’s 8:02am, and he’s got a meeting with Harvey to go over the DiCuomo briefs in 28 minutes. And, _man_ , is he tired.

 

The meeting goes horribly. Well, actually, all the information is organized and delivered impeccably, as usual, but from the moment Mike closes Harvey’s glass door behind him, he feels a tremor building in his chest and his bones and if Harvey notices that Mike’s fingers are shaking in his effort to subdue the shivering he doesn’t comment on it because Mike’s saying that he’s identified a loophole in the contract due to poor wording. And that’s what matters.

Harvey is absently twirling his pen between his fingers, comfortable in his leather chair and nodding along to his associate’s presentation. And then Mike says, "Now because of the wording if we can convince Harrison to—" His whole body seizes in a violent shiver that ends with his teeth seemingly unable to stop chattering.

"All right?" Harvey asks after a moment passes. He quirks one eyebrow. Mike’s cheeks are flushed, and Harvey must admit the kid looks a little wobbly on his feet. "You’re not sick, are you?" He points his pen at the blond accusingly.

"I’m—" _fine_ , Mike was going to say, except then a wracking cough nearly doubles him over. Harvey winces, more for how the cleaners will have to disinfect his desk than in actual sympathy (or so he tells himself). When it’s done, Mike rubs his sore throat and straightens. "Was fine this morning," he manages pathetically.

"Well, you’re not fine now." Harvey sighs. "Get out. I don’t want you infecting my office. Have Donna give you some drugs."

Mike smirks, and Harvey catches himself. "Legal, over-the-counter drugs," he corrects. 

Mike rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbles as he’s walking to the door. He salutes once and then the glass shuts behind him. Harvey watches as Donna hands Mike something from her seat without turning away from (what he assumes is) her furious typing at her computer. Mike pockets the medicine without even reading the labels and the words, "Marry me," must pass his lips because his lovely secretary chooses to turn swiftly around and point to her left ring finger. Harvey assumes that she’s telling Mike something like, _when you can afford a diamond the size of a quarter, then maybe we’ll talk._

 

Sometime between the hours of 9 o’clock and 1 o’clock, Mike falls asleep at his cubicle, head pillowed in his arms and – yeah – drooling all over the DiCuomo briefs.

 

He decides to check on his associate before meeting a client for lunch; it’s been unusually quiet on Mike’s side of things since their meeting this morning, and Harvey can just imagine him buried elbow-deep in transcripts and documents, highlighter and stickies brandished, wide-eyed and speed-reading. 

Only, he rounds the corner and finds Mike slumped over on his desk.

"Are you serious," he not so much asks as he states when he’s just behind Mike’s hunched form. "Mike," Harvey says in the deepest, richest voice he can manage. (Which is very deep and very rich, thank you very much).

No response. Not even a stir.

"Mike," he says again, louder, growing impatient. It’s a good thing that most of the other associates are out to lunch already, or this may have caused a scene – although upon closer inspection, Harvey notices a smiley face drawn in sharpie right behind Mike’s left ear, so it’s possible that a scene had already been made. A smiley face, though. Harvey scowls. Must have been Rachel.

Harvey sees no other choice. He cups the back of his associate’s neck, and leans close to whisper, "You have three seconds to wake up, Michael Ross, or you’re fired. Three, two." Mike rouses before one. A fluttering of his eyelashes, a groan. He tries to surreptitiously wipe away the drool but fails. "Don’t fire me," is all he says, voice raspy. He rubs his eyes before sitting up properly to fix Harvey with an apologetic stare. But then he just keeps staring, his baby blues unfocused somewhere above Harvey’s right shoulder.

"Hey," Harvey barks, snapping his fingers right in front of the kid’s face. Mike instantly focuses on Harvey’s outstretched hand. "I didn’t hire you to sleep on the job. How long have you been unconscious? And why did no one—" And then Mike _turns away and holds out his hand_ and Harvey can’t _believe_ that this guy has just nonverbally asked Harvey to hold his thought and stop mid-sentence. He’s sure his eyebrows are at his hairline.

"No disrespect," Mike mumbles before being disrespectful anyway, interrupting, "but if I’m awake for three more seconds I will vomit. In this office."

"Excuse me?" is all Harvey can say, and he supposes that that’s three seconds worth of incredulousness on his part, because in the next moment Mike has swiveled around in his chair and folded over to wretch into his waste basket. Harvey wrinkles his nose in distaste. He hates vomit. "That’s disgusting."

"I think Donna gave me Benadryl," Mike says into the waste basket. "Drowsy."

Harvey sighs again. He seems to be doing a lot of sighing today. "Look, you’re obviously sick, and throwing up more than once at the office is not okay, so I’m sending you home with Ray, and you’re staying home until you can stand on your feet for ten whole seconds without fainting."

"I can do that now," Mike protests, but as he’s still hunched over the bin, it’s unconvincing. "And what do you mean 'more than once'?" He makes an alarming gagging noise that has Harvey wincing _again_ and that’s just not cool. His hands itch to do something like rub circles on Mike’s back, but that’s ridiculous so instead he whips out his phone.

"I’m calling Ray now. No arguing."

Mike whimpers.

 

So, the only reason Harvey Spector is standing outside his associate’s door in a suit that costs about as much as half a year’s worth of Mike’s rent is because Donna gave him leftovers and Harvey doesn’t _do_ leftovers and Harvey had said, _Why don’t you bring it to Mike?_ , and Donna had fixed him with this glare that clearly stated, _I have better, more glamorous things to do with my time, and Mike Ross certainly isn’t_ my _little pet project_ , and then she had said the words anyway. Harvey doesn’t do leftovers, but despite his extravagant spending habits and luxurious lifestyle he is and always has been a firm believer of Waste Not, and who else is going to eat this Tom Yum Soup, Chicken Satay with Peanut Dipping Sauce, and Massaman Curry dinner set from Donna’s favorite Thai restaurant? So, yeah, he’s standing outside of Mike’s door with the paper bag and raps briskly on the wood before him. His knuckles make a very satisfying, sharp sound.

He hears shuffling on the other side of the door, a thump and a quick cry of 'ow!', and then Mike is opening the door, predictably hobbling on one foot. Unpredictably, he is in what Harvey assumes are his pajamas – an old concert t-shirt for Muse, so faded he can barely make out the words, and boxers – and a comforter is draped around his shoulders. He looks incredibly small right then, with his hair sticking every which way and flushed cheeks. "Stubbed my toe," Mike tries to say, only it comes out, "Snubbed my doe." If it weren’t for the unusually embarrassing display in front of him Harvey might have been tempted to school Mike in how that was a completely inappropriate way to answer his door. However, given the circumstances, Harvey lets it slide.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh (last one for the day, he promises himself), and holds out the paper bag by way of greeting.

"You brought me food?" Mike asks, furrowing his eyebrows in genuine confusion. "Is it poisoned?"

"I grabbed the one not labeled ‘Louis’ so you should be fine."

"Uh," Mike says, still uncertain. "Thanks." (Or, as it sounds when he says it, "Danks."). He takes the bag, then steps aside to let Harvey into his cramped apartment. From what he sees, Mike had taken up residence on his couch; the TV is on Food Network, a low hum of noise in the background, and the coffee table is littered with tissues. "You didn’t have to come over, Harvey." He pulls the comforter tighter around his shoulders before shuffling back to the couch and lowering himself into one corner, immediately drawing up his knees, snuggling into the space where the armrest meets the seat. Harvey wonders if Mike is feeling that ache in his bones and joints that come with a fever. "Sit down?" Mike suggests.

Harvey eyes the couch suspiciously. "And wrinkle my suit?" He’d rather not take any chances. "I just came by to see if you’d be able to come in tomorrow for me. And that’s definitely not going to happen, I can tell." Harvey narrows his eyes at the brown paper bag left untouched on the coffee table. "Not going to eat?"

"Dunno if I can keep anything down," is Mike’s reply. It touches something in Harvey’s gut; it may be one of the most pathetic things he’s ever heard.

"Have the soup, at least."

"You could have just called, you know. I don’t need a babysitter."

Harvey doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. He walks around the couch and snatches the paper bag into his hands, heading to the kitchenette. Before he can even acknowledge what he’s doing he’s got the soup warmed up and ready to go, and he’s taken out the bits of chicken and vegetables so that all that’s left is broth, and he’s forced the warm bowl into Mike’s hands, who looks up at him with a mixture of shock and confusion and possibly a little fear, and that’s probably why when Harvey says firmly, "Drink," Mike brings the bowl to his lips and tilts it back.

Mike sputters, practically throws the bowl back onto the coffee table and continues to cough for the next five minutes. Harvey has no choice but to sit down and clap his hand on his associate’s back. The couch gives under Harvey’s weight, curving in the seat so they are tilted towards each other, and when did clapping his hand on Mike’s back turn into smoothing circles over his shoulder blades? Harvey brings his hand back quickly. "How are you feeling?" he asks in a voice that is surprisingly soft – tender, even. He hopes Mike doesn’t pick up on it.

"Like I was run over by a truck. While on my bike. And then the guy got out and kicked me in the throat and ribs for good measure." Mike groans and lets his body sink back into the cushions.

"That was…graphic," Harvey muses at the same time Mike says, "And was that _concern_ in your voice just now?" Because he’s a little shit.

Mike fakes shock, but Harvey can see the grin that’s about to explode out of the kid’s face.

Harvey stamps down on the instinct to cross his arms, knowing that’ll come off as defensive. So he decides to press the back of his hand against Mike’s forehead. The look of shock on his Mike becomes genuine, lips parted and eyes wide. "You can’t even drink soup properly right now; it’s dribbling all over your chin, and you say you don’t need a babysitter? What have you been doing since I sent you home, watching Giada and Paula Deen?" And before he can stop himself, he continues: "And have you been drinking lots of fluids? You’re burning up." Where his hand is on Mike’s skin there is a sharp, pulsing heat.

"Uh," Mike stammers. Harvey lets his hand fall to his side. "Uh," Mike finishes stupidly. "It’s an Iron Chef marathon."

Silence falls over them. They’ve sat like this in the offices before, sharing information and brainstorming, but here in Mike’s apartment on his beat-up couch, the air between them is thick and palpable. Mike gulps visibly. "You wanna, uh, watch with me?" he says, avoiding eye contact, although there’s a lilting hopefulness in his voice. 

"I," Harvey starts to say, "will stay until you finish that food, because I know you, and I know you haven’t eaten all day – just because you’re sick doesn’t give you an excuse not to. And it wouldn’t bode well for me if you came back to the Pearson Hardmen looking malnourished." He settles back into the couch, loosening his tie just a bit. As an afterthought he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it carefully over the back of the couch. Wouldn’t want it to get wrinkled. He almost misses the small smile Mike makes at his response. "Now, is it Morimoto? If the secret ingredient is any sort of seafood the other chef is done for."

 

Mike lasts two more episodes of Iron Chef America before dozing off, and it’s halfway through another one before Harvey notices while polishing off the chicken satay (sans peanut dipping sauce – he’s a purist, after all). He’s saying, "Shiitake mushrooms are hardly a _secret_ ingredient. Where’s the challenge in that?" and turning to face his associate; he draws himself short when he sees Mike’s face pressed against the armrest. His chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, and if Harvey listens closely he can hear the small sound of Mike breathing, a little whistling noise through his nose and parted lips and – damn it is all – Harvey finds it _endearing_. His lips quirk up at the corners involuntarily.

Quietly as possible, he gathers up the take-out containers and paper bag and rises, tossing the trash into the basket he finds in the kitchenette. A thought comes to him and he follows it without question, striding over to Mike’s bathroom to root around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror over the sink. He lets out a satisfied hum when he finds a half-empty box of DayQuil. It’ll do. He tears off a packet of pills. Before the short walk back to the couch, he pauses to read and to-do list of sorts taped to the front of the mirror. Later, he adds, "Take medicine, puppy," to the bottom in his straight-up-and-down-no-nonsense handwriting.

He sits back down on the couch. He turns off the television. He puts the packet of DayQuil in easy reach of Mike’s figure on the coffee table. He shrugs himself into his suit jacket. Done.

Satisfied with his work, he turns toward the door, ready to get back to his own apartment. He hasn’t taken even gotten off his seat yet, though, when he hears a soft, raspy, "Leaving?"

Harvey pauses, turns halfway back. "Some of us have to get to work at a reasonable hour tomorrow. And by ‘some of us,’ I mean me." He smirks.

"You, uh," Mike says, sleep-muddled. "Thanks, you know, for coming over." He blushes, or maybe it’s the fever picking up again that makes the color rise in his cheeks.

"Go back to sleep, Mike. I’ll let myself out." Mike closes his eyes. In only a few moments, the rise and fall of his chest has evened out again.

Now, this next bit Harvey will deny to have happened until his dying breath, or at least until next month, when it’s all smooth sailing between them, but he can’t help that in that moment when Mike closes his eyes, some emotion – a positive one, definitely – swells in his chest and the only way he feels he can get that emotion out of him is if he releases it by pressing his lips to the crown of Mike’s forehead, still warm, so that’s exactly what he does. The warmth lingers on Harvey’s lips. Mike makes a contented hum but doesn’t wake. The emotion comes back, pressing against his heart and lungs and ribcage. 

Harvey makes a decision. 

"I’ll come back tomorrow," he says quietly, unsure if Mike will hear.

He leaves.

He comes back the next day. And the next.

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this prompt](http://suitsmeme.livejournal.com/2038.html?thread=3106550#t3106550) @ livejournal, from forever ago.


End file.
